


Nobody

by somewhatrosy



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: i had to repost this three times because formatting broke and it's like literally nothing, the last time i used this website was years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26384320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhatrosy/pseuds/somewhatrosy
Summary: Something something reporter something.  Arturo.
Kudos: 4





	Nobody

**Author's Note:**

> hi uhhh this isn't my first written thing ever but also i'm not really very happy about it currently because it is very small...? like ideally i want this to be bigger and it will be eventually when i flesh this out much much more but this is sorta just a baseline until that day comes where i put time and effort into that. if y'all have any suggestions or anything i could do better just dm me y'all know my discord
> 
> hi i used to do a lot of editing and it does not show. grammar is for nerds

Look at them for a moment. What do you see? They're tan, well-dressed... _way_ overdressed for a ball game if anything. Look away. What was all that you just said? It refuses to parse. They try to tell you what you just wrote down in that little notepad of yours, citing what you said out loud verbatim back at you while you look down at your papers confusedly; it refuses to click once more when everything you wrote down has disappeared. They sigh tiredly. They know what you're about to do--or rather, ask for.

"Do as you must," he preempts you, getting his words out with a sense of urgency. He shuffles in his chair. What emotion is he even experiencing right now? This story is going to be painfully difficult to write... After all, you can't describe him.

You bring someone in to draw them instead. They put pen to paper, blue marks etching themselves into the clean, white paper as each stroke removes the shoddy canvas's purity of color, blotting it with that of the artificial ink. Art, the person, refuses to be there, to be present. One stroke of blue, one glance downwards, and all is lost. And so the clean, white paper remains both clean and white. Grumbling ensues. He chuckles, mumbling about a "lack of Art". This isn't the first time they've made that joke and it shows, his delivery settling underwhelmingly as though he knew it certainly wouldn't be the last. Frankly, you don't care. It seems as though nothing can describe him, but you're firm in your resolve to solve this, whatever this may be.

In a last-ditch effort, you try to interview his teammates individually. You ask them about their peers one by one until eventually getting to the matter at hand, the proverbial elephant outside of the room. The same blank stare pervades each one's gaze--everyone from the captain to the marshmallow to the prodigal son. One by one, they recount tales of his experience with the band, talking fondly about his skills on the vibraphone, perhaps. The captain especially leans into this, noting they used to play similar instruments together. Whispering something about mallets under his breath, he tears up, knowing full well that he's fallen into the same trap of describing needless histories. Even he can't describe him. Nobody can.

You feel an overwhelming urge to apologize. After all, even these people, those arguably closest to him in the public eye, know nothing. You get the feeling he knows that already.

**Author's Note:**

> read the first line as an old spice commercial. you're welcome


End file.
